


A Sweet Man

by toyhto



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Sex, They meet in a shitty place, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: January 1919, somewhere in France, Alfie meets a boy who can't sleep.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 25
Kudos: 238





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU in which Tommy and Alfie meet in France when they're waiting for transportation to home. I*m pretty optimistic that I'm going to write another chapter for this but originally, this was supposed to be one-shot, so don't kill me if this stays that way.
> 
> Mostly, this is Alfie swearing in his head.
> 
> You can say hi to me on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!

January 1919  
Somewhere in France   
  
  
  
It’s fucking cold. It’s been fucking cold for a long time. For four fucking years. Always too cold or too hot. It never made much difference anyway. But now, now it’s cold, his fingers are probably going to freeze and drop, just like that, and there’s no fucking trains, there’s no transportation, and there’s nothing in this tiny fucking thing that the locals call a village. It’s not. It’s a bunch of houses in nowhere.  
  
He’s late. Yeah, he knows that, thank you very much. He’s late and that’s why everyone else is already gone, expect for him and the boy. That’s the way the things are now. And well, he’s been fucking crawling in shit for four years now, hasn’t he, so why would anything change? He takes a deep breath and sits down in a wobbling chair in a room that’s probably supposed to be a tavern in a nameless village somewhere in France, and then he looks at the boy.  
  
“Seems like we’re a bit late,” he says.  
  
The boy stares at him. The poor idiot’s probably trying to look tough but he’s not doing a good job about it. And frankly, Alfie’s not sure if he looks so tough now himself. He’s been here for what feels like forever. It’s a damn miracle that he’s still alive. And now they’re _finally_ taking everyone back to England, and he’s goddamn stuck in France with a boy who’s not even talking to him.  
  
And then there’s the flu, of course. The goddamn Spanish flu killing men who’ve somehow managed to survive four years in the fucking trenches. And then they die like fucking flies in hospitals. The world’s gone fucking mad, yeah, that’s what happened. And the boy’s staring at Alfie as if he can’t decide if Alfie’s on his side or not.  
  
“We’re stuck here, mate,” Alfie tells the boy. “We missed the fucking train.”  
  
The boy doesn’t look so certain about that.  
  
“What did you do, anyway? Because I was just walking here. I took a shard in the knee in 1916 and the fucking thing is still not good. I walked too slowly. What were you doing that you couldn’t catch the train? Got lost in the woods or something?”  
  
The boy licks his lip. He’s pretty. He’s goddamn pretty even in his dirty uniform, and Alfie probably shouldn’t be noticing that.  
  
“Can’t you talk or something?” he asks, trying not to sound like he’s watching the boy’s lips. A pretty boy like that would probably know what to read in it.  
  
“Yeah, I can,” the boy says. His voice is sharp and arrogant. And tired. Fucking tired. “If I want to.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Alfie says and takes a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “Listen. They’ve got to realise that we’re missing. And someone will come back for us. Another train, perhaps. In a few days. I think. But we’re stuck in here until that. So, we might just as well introduce ourselves, wouldn’t you think?” He should get up and go shake the boy’s hand. It’d confuse the idiot. But he’s just too tired. He’s been walking for… for four years, probably. His knee aches and he never liked these goddamn shoes. “Alfie Solomons. You can call me Alfie.”  
  
The boy stares at him for a few more seconds with narrowed eyes. “Tommy Shelby.”  
  
“Tommy Shelby,” he says before he can stop himself. A nice name. Tastes nice. He kind of wants to say it again but holds his tongue for fucking once. “What did you do?”  
  
“I’m a tunneller.”  
  
“Were,” he says and crosses his legs. “You _were_ a tunneller. It’s supposed to be over now.”  
  
The boy stares at him for a while, then stands up and walks to the cabinet holding all the liquor. There’s not much left. The boy takes a half-empty bottle of gin and empties it in a dusty glass, then drinks it all. Well, alright. Alright, then.  
  
“I was a captain,” he says, as if the boy can’t see it in his uniform.  
  
He can see the boy straightening up, poor lad, probably can’t help it. Four years of other people telling him what to do, people pulling rank and telling him to fucking kill himself for the Queen and country, yeah, that fucking breaks a man. And it’s not like the boy doesn’t hate it, because he does, Alfie can see it alright. The boy can’t help it.  
  
 _Tommy._ The boy told Alfie his name, he should fucking use it. People are easier to deal with when you know their names. He’s known that for a long time. Maybe that’s why he’s a goddamn captain. Much good that does, though, now that the war’s over and he’s stuck in France.  
  
“That good?” he asks, nodding at the bottle Tommy’s still holding. “Tommy?”  
  
Tommy looks surprised that Alfie remembers his name. A goddamn fool. Alfie remembers everything. “It’s fine.”  
  
“I suppose you don’t know what happened to the man who owned this bar.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Tommy says. “The flu?”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfie says slowly. The goddamn flu. “We should try to find all the food we can. And then we should find a room to stay in while we wait for someone to fucking take us home.”  
  
Tommy nods. _Goddamn._ Maybe it’s the captain’s uniform, or maybe the boy’s just too tired to think and has been waiting for someone to tell him what to do. The fucker certainly looks tired. There’d probably be some things Alfie could ask him. With a right tone, he might just get it.  
  
But, no. Hell no. Alfie’s tired of telling people what to do, yeah, he’s fucking tired. This war was supposed to last until Christmas, and now it’s been that and four years.  
  
He shifts in his chair, making himself look a little smaller. He’s still much bigger than the boy and they both know it, but there’s not much he can do about that. “I suggest that we stick together,” he says. “Maybe there’re rooms upstairs.”  
  
Tommy nods.  
  
“We don’t have to stay in the same room,” Alfie says. What he doesn’t say is that he wouldn’t mind. He’s pretty certain Tommy can read it in his face anyway.  
  
“Alright,” Tommy says. He doesn’t look surprised or irritated or disgusted. He just looks tired.  
  
Well, it’s been a long fucking war.  
  
“Alright,” Alfie says and stands up. “Alright, we’ll go and see if we can find two nice enough rooms. And then we’ll wait for the bastards to come get us home. Where’re you from, anyway?”  
  
“England,” Tommy says.  
  
Alfie bites his lip but it’s too late, he’s already smiling a little. Goddamn. He didn’t remember how a smile feels on the face. “Oh, that’s a surprise, because I thought you were from fucking Timbuktu.”  
  
“Birmingham,” Tommy says. If Alfie can see right, it’s almost like the boy’s smiling a little. Just a little. But, yeah.  
  
“Birmingham,” he says slowly, “an awful place, very awful. I’m so sorry, mate. I’m from London myself, yeah, I’m very excited to see what’s come of the city. Haven’t seen it for two years, I think.”  
  
Tommy shakes his head slightly, as if to imply that he’s sorry Alfie’s from London of all places. Alfie snorts. He fucking likes the bastard, alright? He fucking likes this boy.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The room is small and not very clean and there’s the smell of dust and possibly death, too. If he had to guess, he’d guess that whoever lived here either died of the flu or moved elsewhere after the outbreak. He lies down on his back on the mattress that’s not good, exactly, but much better than many places he’s slept in the last years.  
  
He’s probably going to make it back to London. Well, isn’t that a thought, really. It’s been months since the end of the war and he’s still stuck in here. It all is taking so long he’s kind of beginning to think that maybe the people back home have blown the whole thing up or something. Maybe there’s no London anymore, maybe there’s no England, and the reason why they can’t get the soldiers the fuck out of here is that they don’t want them to see.  
  
But now, there’re people who know he’s still stuck here, and there’s the tunneller who looks like half of him got buried and never dug out, and someone’s going to come to get them. That’s what he’s going to believe. And that’s what he’s going to tell Tommy. In the morning, when he goes downstairs and probably finds the bastard emptying another bottle of gin, yeah, there’s something in Tommy’s eyes that suggests he’s that kind of a man. Probably wasn’t, before the war. But there’s no point in thinking about the times before the war, is there, since there’s no way to go back.  
  
He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, and that’s when he hears the footsteps on the corridor. He reaches for his gun, but it’s the boy. Surely it’s the boy who’s sneaking on the corridor, and Alfie’s a gambler, alright, and he’d fucking bet his life that the boy’s not going to shoot him in the face. He lets go of the gun and stays in the bed, and then the door opens just a little. Tommy doesn’t come in, only stands in the doorway. It’s too dark for Alfie to see his face, but not dark enough that he couldn’t see that the boy’s there. He’s still pretty sure he’s not going to get shot in the face but that’s the only thing he’s sure of.  
  
“Something wrong?” he asks, making certain that his voice is steady and not surprised at all, as if pretty young men come to search for his pleasant company every other night.  
  
“No,” Tommy says but doesn’t leave.  
  
What the fucking hell, Alfie thinks and slowly sits up on the bed. “You looking for something? Booze?”  
  
Tommy shakes his head and then takes a deep breath. “Well, if you –“  
  
“I don’t have any.”  
  
“Alright,” Tommy says, clearly disappointed, poor fucker. And still he doesn’t leave. It’s not booze that he came for.  
  
Alfie bites his lip. “Can’t sleep?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Okay, at least they’re getting somewhere now. “For how long?”  
  
“I don’t know. Weeks. I sleep for a few hours every night but…”  
  
“Not enough. I get it.” Alfie takes a deep breath. He doesn’t get it, not really. He’s not the kind of a man other men come for comfort, to talk about their sleeping problems. He doesn’t know why because he can _talk_. But that’s how it is. Men are a little afraid of him. He knows it and he uses it. But Tommy’s still at the doorway as if he’s come here to fucking pour his heart to Alfie. “You want to talk about it?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“You came to my room, mate.”  
  
Tommy doesn’t answer and well, okay, that was a bit blunt. But Alfie’s fucking tired and he’s not in a mood for guessing.  
  
“So, what is it?” he asks.  
  
Tommy stays frozen for a second, then takes a step closer and closes the door.  
  
 _Bloody hell._ Well, it’s not a surprise that Tommy could read something in Alfie’s face, not really, clearly this is an intelligent bastard who’s also goddamn pretty and has been fighting a fucking war in France for years. Tommy’s had opportunities to realise what certain men might want of him, were he that inclined. But this, well, walking to Alfie’s room in the middle of the night, saying that he doesn’t want to talk, coming closer and closing the door… it seems like a suggestion.  
  
“Mate,” Alfie says slowly.  
  
“Shut up,” Tommy says.  
  
Well, Alfie’s not going to do that, is he? He fucking likes talking. “What’re you doing? You say that you don’t want to talk about it. Because really, I don’t know what else I can do for you, if you aren’t here for the talking.”  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
Alfie takes a deep breath. Well, maybe he can afford to be a bit blunter. He was never actually shy about this. But he can see Tommy’s face in the dim light coming through the curtains and the boy’s staring at him in the eyes. It’s unnerving, that’s what it is. Pretty boys don’t look at Alfie like that. “If you don’t want to get into my bed,” Alfie says, “maybe you should leave.”  
  
Tommy doesn’t fucking inch.  
  
“Okay,” Alfie says, mostly to calm himself down. “Okay, then. Want to come here? Is that it?”  
  
“You should tell me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You should tell me what to do,” Tommy says, sounding uncertain for the first time.  
  
“You want me to tell you what to do.”  
  
Tommy nods. Alfie’s pretty fucking sure his face is flushed but he can’t see colours, not in the dark like this.  
  
“Really?”  
  
Tommy nods again.  
  
“But what if,” Alfie says slowly and comes to sit on the edge of the mattress. He’s sitting and Tommy’s standing and he doesn’t exactly feel powerful like this, not at all, but maybe that’s the point. And it’s not like he can’t play a part if he wants to. He just needs to be sure which part that is. “What if I tell you to go back to your room and sleep?”  
  
Tommy snorts.  
  
“You’re that certain of yourself?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says slowly. “You were looking at me.”  
  
“There’s no one else in here to look at,” Alfie says. It’s a weak excuse and he knows it.  
  
“Do you want me to go?” Tommy says. He sounds like he doesn’t give a shit about what Alfie’s going to say. But he came to Alfie’s room. And he’s still here.  
  
“No,” Alfie says. “Tell me what I can ask. Tell me what you’ll do.”  
  
“No,” Tommy says.  
  
This feels like a fucking game. Or a trap. It shouldn’t make Alfie feel more alive, but well, he’s what he is. Always has been. “I don’t hurt people,” he says. Hopefully that’s blunt enough to get the message through. “That’s not my thing. I don’t want to do that by accident.”  
  
Tommy tilts his head to the side, watching him, and he wonders vaguely what the hell they’re going to do if it turns out that Tommy’s thing is letting people to hurt him. Because that’s just… that’s just unpleasant, alright, Alfie doesn’t want to do that, but he guesses he will. If Tommy wants him to.  
  
“What if I want to fuck you?” he asks. Better to get it over with.  
  
“Okay,” Tommy says.  
  
Alfie swallows. “Okay?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“That on the table?”  
  
“You tell me,” Tommy says, the fucking bastard. Alfie’s trying to be nice about this, isn’t he, he’s trying to be fucking _considerate_ and Tommy’s just… just standing there, looking at him as if he knows exactly what Alfie wants of him. And he’s right. He’s damn right. Alfie wants him to get on his knees on the bed, face down against the pillow, all his clothes gone, trembling as he takes Alfie’s cock in.  
  
“So, you’ve done that before?”  
  
Tommy nods.  
  
“And did you like it?” Alfie asks, trying to make it sound like he’s talking dirty. He’s pretty sure Tommy can see straight through him, because he tenses slightly before relaxing again. “I guess that’s a no.”  
  
“I didn’t ask –“  
  
“Tell me,” Alfie says, and it’s not a suggestion now. He knows how to make people do things, doesn’t he? He’s been a fucking captain in war for so long he’s got trouble remembering what he was before that. “Tell me if you’ve ever liked it.”  
  
Tommy shakes his head, looking like he wants to kick Alfie in the groin for asking. But he’s smaller than Alfie. He wouldn’t have a chance and he knows it. And if Alfie’s being perfectly honest with himself, he supposes that’s why Tommy’s here with him and not taking care of the issue with his own hand in his own room.  
  
“Why let me try, then?”  
  
“I can’t sleep,” Tommy says.  
  
“That’s not a reason.”  
  
“Sure it is.”  
  
“That’s not a good reason.”  
  
Tommy licks his lips. _Fuck._ Alfie’s got to stop staring at the bastard’s mouth or he’ll do exactly what Tommy wants him to.  
  
“Okay,” he says, and it’s really quite impressing that he only sounds a little out of breath, “I’ll tell you the rules. The rules are that if I do something you don’t like, you tell me.”  
  
Tommy opens his mouth. Oh, it’s a pretty mouth.  
  
“And,” Alfie cuts in, “don’t think that I won’t notice if you cheat. Because I can fucking tell when people lie. And if I catch you lying to me, I will fucking end this right then and there.”  
  
Tommy blinks at him.  
  
“And if you don’t like something but you can’t speak at the moment, I don’t know, if you happen to be in a position that makes it impossible for you to speak, well, I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to punch me.”  
  
The idiot looks slightly sceptical. The look suits him very well.  
  
“Yeah, that’s right,” Alfie says, “you’re going to punch me. Or kick me. Whatever part of your body happens to be free for some friendly violence. You’re going to fucking _tell_ me if you don’t like something, and that’s my condition.”  
  
Tommy’s looking at him as if he can’t figure out why Alfie’s giving him conditions and not jumping at the chance to fuck him with no questions asked. It’s almost like he usually goes for people who don’t much care for details, like, whether he’s going to like it or not. It’s a little bit sad, yeah, Alfie can’t deny that. He used to be a gentle man in the heart, he thinks, it’s just that years of war rub that off. And there’s no denying that the way Tommy’s watching him is doing other things to him, as well.  
  
“I need you to tell me that you agree,” he says, shifting on the mattress, “or else I’m going to kick you out of my room so that I can wank.”  
  
“Okay,” Tommy says and doesn’t move, so probably he means the first.  
  
“Okay?” Alfie says, narrowing his eyes. Tommy looks just the kind of a man who’d try to change the rules during the game. But then again, Alfie’s just that kind of a man as well, so he can change the rules back.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Alright. Get to the bed.”  
  
Tommy flinches and then something drops from his shoulders, an invisible weight probably. The idiot’s really just doing this for someone to order him around, isn’t he, for a fucking chance not to think for himself for a fucking second. The boy surely looks like a thinker. Poor lad. But he’s going to surprised, because Alfie’s been with men before, hasn’t he, he’s done this plenty of times and he generally gets off from knowing that whoever he’s fucking at the moment is enjoying whatever he’s doing. Yeah, maybe he’s still gentle in the heart.  
  
Tommy climbs onto the bed with slightly clumsy movements, and isn’t that a pretty sight, yeah, it is. He settles down on his knees and elbows, facing the mattress, his eyes on the sheets, not even taking glances, clearly thinking that he knows what’s going to fucking happen next. Alfie lets him stay there for a few seconds, lets the boy think he knows this game, and… well, maybe Alfie’s doing this for the scenery as well. Just for a moment.  
  
Then he clears his throat. “Not like that, love. On your back.”  
  
Tommy’s eyes snap to him.  
  
“On your back,” he says nicely enough. It’s not like they don’t both know it’s a command. “Now, if you please. And take your trousers off. And your pants.”  
  
Tommy stares at him but does what he asked, and yeah, this is better. The boy’s trying so hard not to look puzzled, but he obviously can’t figure out why Alfie’s making him do this, because it doesn’t work like this in his head, no, it clearly doesn’t. And that’s a pity. But maybe this is going to be a nice surprise. Or maybe he’ll keep his promise and kick Alfie in the face if he really doesn’t like it, but well, Alfie doesn’t particularly wish for that to happen. He likes the rest of his teeth just fine, thank you very much. And he’d very much like to have sex with this idiot.  
  
He gets to the bed, grabs Tommy’s knees and pushes them apart. Tommy resists only a little, yeah, this is clearly familiar. And then he sits down in between Tommy’s legs, leans down onto his elbows and puts his hand firmly on the crook of Tommy’s hip. Tommy’s fucking trembling, alright, but doesn’t protest.  
  
“Now,” Alfie says, “you can do whatever you like. You can grab my hair. Or you my shoulders. Just tell me if you don’t like it.” Yeah, as if that’s going to happen.  
  
He fucking hopes it isn’t.  
  
He doesn’t wait for Tommy’s answer before he pats the idiot on the thigh, then grabs the said thigh and takes Tommy’s cock in his mouth.  
  
Oh, yeah. This is going to work. This is going to work for both of them. He can hear Tommy’s goddamn surprise in the voices Tommy’s trying not to make, and if he’d have to guess, he’d guess that no one’s blown the kid before. And he kind of wants to fucking punch all the bastards who’ve had a chance to sleep with Tommy and haven’t made a fucking effort to make him fucking _enjoy_ it, but also, it’s kind of nice that the standards are low, because well, he’s pretty tired. He’s been in a fucking war, alright, he’s been sleeping in damn mud for years, he smells of death and shit no matter what he tries to do about it, and there’re images in his head that only get more real when he closes his eyes.  
  
So, he’s not going to be able to fucking perform, is he? But it doesn’t look like he’s going to have to, because after a few seconds of freezing, Tommy now has one hand clutching his hair and the other clinging onto his shoulder, and he has a feeling that the fucker’s trying not to fuck his mouth. Too bad. Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen, in the end. And he doesn’t particularly care if this goes fast, not this time. Maybe in the morning they’ll try this again. Then he’ll make Tommy come slowly, yeah, that’s what he’s going to do, but this time, he wants the bastard to lose his mind and come so fast and hard he’s not going to know what happened afterwards. And besides, Alfie’s knee is aching, and his neck is aching, and his jaw is aching, and he’s not going to be able to keep this up for long.  
  
He lets go of Tommy’s hip and slaps the fucker on the thigh, gentle and nice, and Tommy bucks into his mouth with a hoarse groan that’s so pretty Alfie’s ears fucking hurt at the sound. Tommy sounds so confused and it’s fucking adorable, yeah, Alfie’s going to fucking make him feel so good he didn’t think it’d be fucking possible, yeah, the bastard hasn’t got the imagination for the things Alfie’s going to make him feel. Alfie’s going to take him apart, Alfie’s going to hold him in the bed and make him take it, gentle and nice, so gentle, because there isn’t enough gentleness in this world, is there, damn right there isn’t, never has been, but the last four years, it’s been a goddamn hell on Earth, hasn’t it, the goddamn -  
  
Tommy comes in his mouth with a sound just resembles a cry. Well, Alfie’s made men cry before. He swallows a bit mostly because of the surprise. He got kind of distracted in the end, didn’t he. He just wishes Tommy didn’t notice, because that’d be awkward. He likes to think he’s a good lover. He spits the rest of the cum to the floor and then sits back. He’s breathless and too hot in his clothes and his damn knee is a fucking disaster right now, but the look on Tommy’s makes up for all that and more.  
  
“So,” Alfie says, trying his best not to sound out of breath, “did you hate it?”  
  
Tommy stares at him, his mouth open and his face flushed.  
  
“If you like,” Alfie says, “we can do it again in the morning. I’m a generous man, really. A nice man. And you’re pretty. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I think most of the men you’ve been letting to fuck you haven’t been very nice about it. And I think you haven’t had the fucking brain to expect more of them. You’ve just thought that’s how these things go. And it’s not. So, if you like, we can try again while we wait for the train to get us the fuck home from here.”  
  
Tommy swallows. He’s got a pretty throat, alright? That’s why Alfie’s staring.  
  
“But now,” Alfie says, fumbling with his trousers until he can get rid of them, and then pushes his hand to his pants, grabbing his cock. “Now, I want you to look at me. Just like that.”  
  
Tommy swallows again. Oh, fucking hell, what a sight. “I could –“  
  
“No, no, no,” Alfie says, “no, you can’t do anything right now, because you just came into my mouth. I don’t want to hear what you can do, I want to hear that you’re feeling so fucking fucked that you couldn’t lift a finger. And I want you to look at me. I want to see your eyes.”  
  
“My eyes,” Tommy says. He sounds like he’s been in a shipwreck. Or in the war.  
  
“Yeah, your goddamn eyes. I want to –,“ Alfie pauses and takes a deep breath. We’ll, this isn’t going to take long. He should probably tug his pants from the way, but he doesn’t want to mess the sheets, either, so he just keeps going.  
  
“You want me to talk?” Tommy asks. His voice is getting some of its sharpness back, just in time.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”  
  
“Because I think you like my voice,” Tommy says, and Alfie almost laughs aloud, only it sounds a lot like a moan. Yeah, fucking right. He fucking _knew_ the bastard’s clever. “And I think you like to think that you ruined me,” Tommy says, “I think you like to think that you were the fucking first person who’s ever been nice to me, is that it, is that what’s going to get you off? Not that you aren’t a little bit right about that, but really, you look down on me, a big man, a fucking captain, you make me think you can fucking hold me down if you want to, and then what you really want me to do is that you want me to think that you’re the sweetest fucking man in the fucking England.”  
  
“I’m not –,” Alfie starts and then he has to bite back the rest of it, because he comes in his hand.  
  
He has a vague feeling that Tommy’s laughing at him. But nicely. He’s going to get the bastard get away with it, but only because he just came into Alfie’s mouth and he’s still sprawled there with no trousers, everything in fucking display.  
  
“Yeah, right,” Tommy says, and doesn’t kick Alfie in the knee when he settles himself on the mattress next to Tommy. “You aren’t trying to be sweet or anything.”  
  
“I’ve killed people,” Alfie says, his eyes half-closed. His head is full of the mud he’s been crawling in for the past years, and when he shifts closer to Tommy, he can almost fucking taste Tommy’s smell. “I’ve killed more people than I can count. I’m not _sweet._ ”  
  
“Yeah, me neither.”  
  
“This place,” Alfie says, wraps his arm around Tommy and pushes his nose against Tommy’s neck. Tommy doesn’t push him off. “This place is a fucking graveyard.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“These four years –“  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says, breathing in his arms. Oh, god, it’s almost like they’re cuddling. What a disaster. He kisses Tommy’s neck. “What’re you doing?” Tommy asks.  
  
“Tell me to stop.”  
  
Tommy stays quiet.  
  
“Alright,” Alfie says, grabs Tommy’s chin and reaches to kiss him on the mouth. The bastard tastes of gin. It’s fucking awful. He kisses Tommy again. “We’re going to do this again,” he says against Tommy’s mouth, “in the morning. And possibly in the evening.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Until the train comes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the second (and the last) chapter happened! Here it is and it has their reunion in it, I mean, an alternative take on their first meeting in Alfie's bakery in season 2, only this time, it's obviously not their first meeting. There's some negotiation, flirting, tea and a little bit of sex. And one bleeding nose.

1921  
Camden Town, London  
  
  
  
He's been a fucking optimist, alright? He’s been thinking that maybe, just maybe, the Tommy Shelby who’s coming to see him from fucking Birmingham to make some kind of a mad deal is the same Tommy Shelby he fucked for four and a half days somewhere in France almost two years ago. And okay, it wasn’t just fucking. They also talked. Or Alfie talked and Tommy stared at him, but he got Tommy to say a few things, in the end, usually in the circumstances where Tommy was still laying sprawled on the bed, eyes closed and dick out. Yeah, in those circumstances Tommy said a few things, and that’s why Alfie’s thinking he might be mad and desperate enough to come to London to see a Jewish gentleman about a deal to fuck the Italians.  
  
Yeah, he’s been an optimist. It’s not like this is a surprise. That’s why it’s a bit embarrassing that he can’t figure out what to say when Ollie brings the bastard from Birmingham to his office and it _is_ his Tommy Shelby.  
  
“Well, this is a fucking surprise,” he says when it’s been silence for, like, three seconds, and Ollie’s looking at him as if the kid’s worried he might’ve lost his voice.  
  
Tommy doesn’t seem surprised, thank god. It’d have been a pity if the boy had forgotten him. After all the things he did for the boy, right?  
  
He bites his lip and sits back in his chair. He probably should stop calling the boy a boy. They’re almost the same age. And he has a feeling that Tommy’s been busy for the past two years, and not in a good way. Frankly, he looks like someone’s beaten the shit out of him recently.  
  
He's still pretty, though.  
  
“Sit down,” Alfie says, pointing at the chair opposite the table. “Please. You don’t look healthy. And Ollie, you can go.”  
  
Ollie looks a little surprised.  
  
“Trust me,” Alfie says, raising his eyebrows, and Ollie rushes out of the room. Alfie’s taught the kid well.  
  
But when the door’s closed, it becomes apparent that he’s alone with Tommy fucking Shelby. He’s had a few dreams about Tommy Shelby, alright. A few very nice dreams over the years, and a few pretty bad, but what can you expect, for a man of his past? For a man who’s been in fucking war? Sometimes there’s a nice bed and sometimes there’s grenades. That’s just how it is. But in most dreams, he eventually fucks Tommy.  
  
Now, Tommy’s nose starts dripping blood. The idiot’s still just standing there, even though there’s a perfectly good chair available.  
  
“What’re you waiting for,” Alfie says, nodding at the chair, “a welcome kiss?” Then he tosses his napkin to Tommy. “You’re fucking bleeding, mate. Sit the fuck down before you pass out.”  
  
Tommy seems to considerate that and sits the fuck out, thankfully. He also wipes his face but there’s still blood. Oh, god.  
  
“That’s a real concern, then?” Alfie says, leaning over the table. Tommy might interpret that he’s just trying to be intimidating, and wouldn’t that be great, because what he’s trying to do is that he’s trying to figure out how badly Tommy’s been hurt. “You might pass out?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Tommy says in a voice that suggests it’s a possibility.  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t be here,” Alfie say, leaving out that now that Tommy is, in fact, here, there’s no way Alfie’s going to let him fuck off. “You could’ve called me and told me you’re in fucking pieces.”  
  
“I need this deal,” Tommy says in a hoarse voice. He sounds older than in France. And very tired. He was tired in France, as well, but in a different way. In many different ways. Sometimes, he was tired because Alfie had just finished having his wicked ways with him. That was good kind of tired. This is bad. And Alfie’s not sure if he’s going to be able to fix it doing the same things he did in France. Also, he doesn’t have a goddamn clue if Tommy’s going to let him try.  
  
“You need this deal,” he says, because that’s the easy part, and besides, that’s why Tommy came. “Okay, let’s talk about the deal.”  
  
He didn’t mean to go easy on the bastard. He thought that even though this Tommy Shelby would be his Tommy Shelby after all, he wouldn’t go easy, because well, they aren’t lovers or anything. They aren’t even friends. They just spent a few days together in France where nothing counts.  
  
But it turns out he doesn’t have a chance. Tommy’s apparently trying to be tough and everything, a perfect little gangster, and to be honest, he’s doing quite well. He doesn’t threaten Alfie directly, but that’s probably because he knows Alfie’s staring at his mouth and his throat and the tiny spot of blood on his white shirt. He must know. He’s not an idiot. And he knew in France. Certainly he can tell that what Alfie’s thinking about is folding him in half on the table and fucking him breathless.  
  
No, no. Alfie’s not thinking about that. He can fucking see Tommy clenching his fists to steady his hands. He can see that Tommy’s nose is bleeding again. What he’s thinking about is that he’s going to take the bastard home, make some tea, have him sit in the armchair and then probably call a doctor. And then, if the good doctor allows it, Alfie’s going to suck Tommy off.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says, when he’s been talking about his fucking deal for a while and Alfie’s been bargaining. Just to be polite.  
  
“Yeah, alright,” Alfie says, because let’s be honest, it’s a little distracting to hear his name on Tommy’s mouth. On Tommy’s fucking mouth. Oh, shit, he still wants to kiss the bastard. “I hear you. You can have your deal.”  
  
“Really?” Tommy says. He sounds disappointed.  
  
“Yeah,” Alfie says, “sorry to disappoint you, but yeah, you can. It kind of makes sense. I like you much more than Sabini. Like, much, much more. And in a very different way. For example, I’d never consider –“  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says with a voice that has a bit weight in it. It’s lovely. The boy’s still lovely and Alfie wants to keep him here in his bakery forever and also wants to take him home and to bed immediately.  
  
“Do you have the papers?” he asks, and Tommy does. A good boy. A very good boy. He reads the contract because at this point, it’s important to at least pretend he’s thinking about business and not about getting into Tommy Shelby’s pants as quickly as possible.  
  
Then he signs the damn deal. Tommy’s not looking happy, but then again, the bastard’s probably physically incapable of looking happy. Except for a few times, in a dusty bed in France.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Alfie says, when Tommy’s put the papers away and is shifting in his chair like he thinks he’s going to leave.  
  
Tommy doesn’t flinch. “Really.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. It must be fucking obvious to you that a man who gets to enjoy your company for four and a half days would be thinking about you afterwards. I just thought I’d say it aloud anyway. To make conversation, you know.”  
  
“For four and half days,” Tommy says. He sounds vaguely amused.  
  
“It’s not like I was counting hours,” Alfie says. He could do the math easily, though.  
  
Tommy just sits there and stares at him. Maybe _he’s_ counting hours.  
  
“Who beat you?” Alfie asks. Just for the conversation, and because it might be a bit too early to ask Tommy to kindly fuck him.  
  
“Sabini’s men.”  
  
“Sabini’s men,” Alfie says. Of course it was Sabini’s men. But the worrying part is that the bastard answered. A good gangster should keep all his secrets. But then again, Alfie already knows a few things he likes to think Tommy wants to keep a secret, has known since he made Tommy beg in France.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You’re in fucking trouble,” Alfie says, “and you come here and bring your trouble with you. To me. You bring your trouble to me.”  
  
Tommy blinks.  
  
“Damn right,” Alfie says, shifting in his chair, “that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. I’m going to ask you something, Tommy. Are you armed?”  
  
“Your boy took my gun,” Tommy says, “so, no. Except for a few knives.”  
  
“Alright. So, are you going to stab me if I propose something?”  
  
Tommy stays quiet for a few seconds. It’s terribly unfair that his face has gotten lovelier since Alfie last saw him, yeah, terribly unfair. “Probably not.”  
  
“Okay, I’ll take my chances,” Alfie says and breathes in. “Come over and I’ll make you tea.”  
  
Tommy stares at him. If Tommy’s going to say no, Alfie’s going to fucking ask him if he can bother to stay here, staring at him, just like that, with cold blue eyes, while he jerks himself off. That’d be alright. Not his first choice, but alright.  
  
“Tea?” the bastard asks finally.  
  
“Yeah. Tea. I trust that you’ve heard about it.”  
  
“I’ve heard about tea,” Tommy says, perfectly serious. “I prefer whiskey.”  
  
“I bet that you do,” Alfie says. “I don’t drink.”  
  
“I remember.”  
  
“Good,” he says, not bothering to hide his smile. “So, tea?”  
  
“I thought,” Tommy says and takes a deep breath, and for a second Alfie’s afraid he’s going to break down like a glass doll. He’s been beaten badly, that much is clear. Whoever touched him should have his fucking balls fed to him. “I thought, if we managed to make a deal, it might come to question that you would, I don’t know, fuck me on the table.”  
  
Alfie clears his throat. “Fuck you on the table –“  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“On _this_ table?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“With my fucking knee?”  
  
Tommy almost smiles, Alfie’s certain of that. That’s a victory point for him. “Yeah.”  
  
“So, you weren’t certain you were going to get your deal.”  
  
“No,” Tommy says without hesitation.  
  
“And why the hell not? Surely you knew who I am.”  
  
“And you knew who I am.”  
  
“I wished,” Alfie says, “I fucking wished it was you.”  
  
Tommy seems uncertain about what to do with that information. Good. It’s good that the bastard’s confused. It’ll probably make it easier for Alfie to get him drink some tea and sit down for a while.  
  
“Anyway,” Tommy says, his gaze moving back and forth on Alfie’s face, “I didn’t know you’d accept. It’s not like we are…”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfie says. That’s fucking right. They aren’t exactly anything.  
  
“We just…”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“We just fucked a couple of times,” Tommy says in a hoarse voice. “In France.”  
  
“Yeah, we damn well did,” Alfie says, “but it’s making me a little disappointed that you thought I’d do it on the table. Because that’s not my style at all.”  
  
“It might be my style,” Tommy says, tilting his head to the side.  
  
Well, that’s probably true. The boy Alfie knew in France would have bent down on the table and let Alfie fuck him, would have even liked it more than a cup of tea and a good long fuck in bed, if only because it’d be easier for him that way. He wouldn’t have had to think what it _meant._ Fucking on a table means nothing, everyone knows that.  
  
But the thing is that Alfie’s been thinking about the boy. A lot. And now he’s thinking about the bastard from Birmingham who’s sitting in front of him with a bloody nose. “Have you let anyone fuck you since France?”  
  
Tommy actually flinches at that, then takes out a cigarette and lights it in a quick movement. “Not your fucking business.”  
  
“I think not,” Alfie says slowly, “I think you’ve only been sleeping with women since that. Because you can’t replace me.”  
  
Tommy takes a drag of the cigarette, watching him. “I tried.”  
  
“You _tried._ ”  
  
“Yeah. It seems you’ve ruined me.”  
  
Alfie realises vaguely that he’s grinning but goddamn, there’s nothing he can do about that. “I’ve ruined you?”  
  
“The stuff you did,” Tommy says, frowning, “the _nice_ stuff. It seems that I’m into that shit these days.”  
  
“Bloody hell.”  
  
“Yeah, exactly. It’s very inconvenient.”  
  
“Okay,” Alfie says, “okay, I get it. But let me tell you, we aren’t going to do anything on this table.”  
  
“That’s a shame,” Tommy says, glancing at the table.  
  
“Because I have a decent bed,” Alfie says, “just around the corner. And I’m going to make you drink tea first because mate, you aren’t going to pass out when I’m in the middle of the delicate process of sucking you off.”  
  
“So, you’re going to suck me off,” Tommy says and puts the cigarette out. His fingers are lovely. Always were.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Alright. Just around the corner?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
Alright. This is going to end badly. This is going to end fucking badly and there’s nothing Alfie can do about that at this point, is there, because he already has Tommy Shelby in his bed, naked, stuffed with tea and biscuits and so bloody tired it’ll be a wonder if the bastard’s going to get his dick hard. And Alfie doesn’t even mind, no, it seems that he’s frozen, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching Tommy realising slowly that nothing is happening.  
  
“Nothing’s happening,” Tommy says. He’s clearly trying to sound unhappy.  
  
“No, I disagree, mate,” Alfie says. “A lot. A lot is happening.”  
  
“You were supposed to fuck me.”  
  
“I was supposed to suck you off but as I see it, your cock’s soft as a pussy.”  
  
Tommy bites his lip. “Soft as a _what?_ ”  
  
“Not that I know anything about that,” Alfie says, “no, not my cup of tea at all. But I suppose you do.”  
  
“Are you jealous?” Tommy asks, smiling just a little.  
  
“No, not right now, since you’re naked in my bed, thank you for asking. No, at the moment I think I’m pretty content.”  
  
“You’re just watching me.”  
  
“As I said, your cock’s soft.”  
  
“You could try touching it.”  
  
Alfie sighs and then shifts closer to Tommy, reaches to wrap his fingers around the subject in question and gives it a few nice tugs. It stiffens a bit, alright, but Tommy’s still looking like he should sleep for twenty-four hours and then see a doctor.  
  
“Don’t stop.”  
  
“Listen,” Alfie says slowly, because this is goddamn frightening. “You have someone waiting for you outside? Ready to shoot me in the head if you stay for longer than half an hour?”  
  
“No,” Tommy says, looking a little embarrassed about it. As he should. The tiny gangster.  
  
“So, you just come to my house and expect to get out alive with no back-up at all.”  
  
“Yeah. Seems like that.”  
  
“Good,” Alfie says. “This is what we’ll do. You’ll sleep here, you’ll sleep in my fucking bed and we’ll cuddle. Like we did in France.”  
  
“We didn’t cuddle in France.”  
  
“You’re remembering it wrong, mate,” Alfie says and then thinks about it. “Well, maybe you had already passed out. From sex. But it still counts.”  
  
“You can’t possibly want me to stay the night.”  
  
“And what makes you think that? The cold attitude I had for you when we were stuck in France?”  
  
Tommy stays quiet.  
  
“Or the way I made you tea?”  
  
“Alfie –“  
  
“Don’t _Alfie_ me,” Alfie says. “I know I’m being a fucking fool. But I have the right. Everyone has the right to be a fucking fool sometimes, and I’m using mine now. I want you to sleep in my bed, Tommy, and if you’re feeling better in the morning, then I’m going to suck you off. Or fuck you. Or whatever you want.”  
  
“Whatever I want.”  
  
“But nicely. Because I like it nice.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says slowly, “I remember. It’s weird.”  
  
“No, it’s not. If you’d get to fuck yourself, you’d want it nice, too.”  
  
“I probably wouldn’t, though.”  
  
“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Alfie says. “How’s your cock now? Still soft?”  
  
Tommy actually glances at the damn thing.  
  
“Yeah,” Alfie says, “yeah, we’re going to go to sleep now. Do you think you can share the bed?”  
  
“I’m not sure. You should’ve probably sucked me off and have me pass out.”  
  
“Well, the thing is I couldn’t be certain you’d pass out from getting your cock sucked and not from your injuries,” Alfie says. “Stop talking about your cock, Tommy.”  
  
“I thought I was here because of my cock.”  
  
“No, someone’s lied to you, mate. You’re here, I mean, you’re in my bed because of your eyes. Your pretty eyes.”  
  
Tommy blinks.  
  
“Roll over,” Alfie says and settles in the bed next to the bastard. Tommy smells of sweat and blood and tobacco. It’s fucking terrible. He wraps his arm very carefully around Tommy’s waist, pulls him as close as he can and pushes his nose against Tommy’s neck. And then he stays awake for fucking hours, thinking about how he’s got Tommy Shelby in his arms. Finally.  
  
  
**  
  
  
In the morning, he tries to suck Tommy off but Tommy’s being a bastard about it and doesn’t let him. No, it turns out that what Tommy wants instead is to crawl onto his knees and elbows and have Alfie fuck him against the mattress, which to be honest wasn’t Alfie’s favourite option, but it’s alright. It’s more than alright. He has his hand holding Tommy down by the neck and he’s being nice about it, no matter what the bastard says, he’s taking it so slowly that when he finally touches Tommy’s cock, Tommy comes almost right away. It’s brilliant. Tommy’s brilliant. Alfie kisses his back and doesn’t care about how much of a sentimental fool that’s going to make him look like. He doesn’t fucking care. All he cares about is that Tommy Shelby comes in his hand, clenching around his dick, and swearing in a very imaginative and actually quite admirable way. Alfie isn’t certain he could manage that if he was in Tommy’s position right now.  
  
He kisses Tommy on the mouth afterwards and Tommy lets him. Then he realises Tommy’s nose is bleeding _again._ He keeps asking if Tommy’s alright until the idiot seems ready to shoot him in the face, which coincidentally is enough to assure him that Tommy is indeed alright. Great. He wipes Tommy’s face clean of blood and then starts talking about breakfast.  
  
Yeah, he kind of realises this is an odd thing, thank you very much. He realises that. It’s an odd thing to want Tommy to stay for the breakfast, to have him drink tea and try eggs and toast and everything the maid can come up with. It’s an odd thing to think that they might do this again. But Alfie doesn’t fucking care. He usually gets what he wants and this time, he wants Tommy Shelby. He wants Tommy Shelby naked and alive and healthy and calling his name.  
  
Well, he’s kind of always had a hunch that beneath all the killings and beatings and stuff like that, he might be a sweet man.


End file.
